Violins and Vengeance
by Spockologist
Summary: An outing to the symphony may be more interesting than Watson had expected.  Just buddies, no slash.


7

**{Hi guys! This is my first Sherlock Holmes fic, so you will have to tell me how I did. I wrote it for a Forensics assignment, hence the occasional scientific term. The illness which is hinted at will be explained in another story I'm writing. I hope everyone is in character, tell me if I need to change some things, or if I did alright. Thanks for reading!}**

It was unusual for him to reminisce over past cases, but the illness which had struck him down so suddenly had left him wanting in both companionship and amusement. He cured this problem by reading my case files from my 'over romanticized' accounts in the Strand magazine in one of his sarcastic tones that varied between condescension and over dramatized excitement. After finishing one such account, he flung the carefully compiled book across the room and dropped a pale hand across his forehead, the very picture of a tortured soul.

"Watson," he croaked, voice rough from wading through London's underground sewers in pursuit of his latest find. "I fear I cannot stand this any longer. This lounging about is vexing to me. I have nothing to tax my mind and the lack of mental stimulation is maddening!"

He gave me a look of loathing at the word 'stimulation'. Knowing his habits when bored, I had hidden all the methods he liked to use. The Moroccan case had been first to disappear. In his weakened condition, the deplorable contents ran a higher risk of overrunning his system regardless of his hard formed addiction.

The second item to be mysteriously misplaced was his revolver. He was prone, on cloudy days, to practice his skills with firearms against Mrs. Hudson's carefully wallpapered walls. His latest accumulation to the game was to test his skill in accuracy using only peripheral vision. After shattering a window and adding a permanent chip to the fireplace, I was able to distract him long enough to hide the weapon in a place obvious enough in location, but impossible for him to find. I admit, this was done for my benefit, for after playing doctor to a man who hated any form of pity, I enjoyed watching his furtive attempts at locating the items that had not been filed away under his unique system.

But at last, his sleuthing capabilities had won out and he fingered the barrel of the gun lovingly while his mind refused to let go of the fact that the Moroccan case had still eluded him. I took no pity in his look but did take interest as he smothered a cough and took careful aim at a cat threading its way through the crowds on the street.

"Holmes!" I cried, "Really, the way you carry on is nothing more than childish!"

He lowered the revolver and gave me a look of dramatic resignation. "It is no use, Watson. I can take your mothering no longer. I require some form of stimulation!"

I was not sure if I should take offense that he viewed my doctoring as nothing more than mothering, but pushing aside all feelings, I saw that my friend was right. Keeping him inside one more day would exasperate us both.

Trying to salvage at least one fragment of my medical profession, I put down my book. "As your doctor-"

"You're not my doctor!"

"As your friend, then. I recommend an outing to the orchestra."

"Splendid!" Holmes bounced to his feet, fighting back a fit of coughing. "I'll go get my hat."

I was as fond of the symphony as Holmes was of billiards, but it was a chance to escape the monotony of Baker Street and I welcomed it accordingly. Once seated, I continued to keep a watchful eye on my patient; but Holmes had lost all interest in me as his grey eyes roved round the room in search of anything that might arouse his attention.

The polite applause spattered in the audience as the conductor walked across the stage and took his customary place with a bow. I had clapped as well, but glancing across at my companion, slowed the motion. His keen eyes were locked onto those of the conductor's and the slight flush his countenance had held with fever was drawn over with one of healthy excitement. "My dear Holmes." I remarked, "Whatever is the matter?"

But he hushed me and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed to enjoy the performance. But it took little more than a casual observer to note the tension of the body, the tightening of the hands and look of suppressed excitement which adorned his face.

Unable to adopt the feeling of serenity my friend was trying to convey, I leaned forward for any sign of what had excited him, but was unable to note anything of interest. Leaning back in my chair, I gave it up for lost and began to consider if letting Holmes out of the house with a fever had been such a wise decision when the music began to swell to its climax, making any thoughts other than its melody impossible.

The song was bursting to its greatest when a mangled cry rose above the noise, competing with the flutes and the sudden sound of an instrument clattering to the floor was heard. Holmes was on his feet in an instant. Peering over the balcony with a look of grim curiosity. Someone screamed and all music ceased as panic filled voices rent the air.

"Doctor! We need a doctor!" A musician had leapt upon the conductor's station and shouted into the audience.

I rose from my chair and went quickly down the stairs. Holmes's hoarse voice pressured me from behind. "Quick Watson!" he hissed. "Now's our chance!"

"A chance for what?" I exclaimed, having no idea to what he was referring.

"Excitement! A case! Finally!" His eyes gleamed and as I jumped that final stair, and saw what awaited us, I realized my friend's search for adventure would come at a very heavy cost.

Half the symphony stood motionless as Holmes and I ran breathlessly up the aisle. The other half milled about in chaotic confusion around the centre of the problem. Some trying to assist, others just watching with looks of shock upon their faces. "Here!" I cried, pushing my way through the crowd. "I am a doctor." 

The crowd seemed to surge apart to let me pass and for the first time that evening, I got a clear view of the unfortunate soul who had become the source of all this madness. It was a man, a violinist to be more precise, dressed in the jacket and coattails of his fellow musicians. He had fallen face forward, pitching himself into the instruments below him. He was lying motionless and I knew in a moment I wouldn't be able to assist.

Holmes came up behind me, laying a hand on my shoulder as if sharing the grief every doctor feels at the sight of a lost life. Moving past me, he knelt and carefully began his curious examination of the body. Kneeling a bit more stiffly as my war injury required, I to, knelt beside him and observed the victim as best as my medical intelligence allowed.

No pulse, not even a faint one. There was no hope for revivification now. But the body was still warm, the sign of life slowly drifting away as Alger mortis took its miserable course. Nerve response was zero, unusual in a case so soon after death. This gave me indications of possible nerve trauma, such as a seizure, but if this was murder, and I shuddered to think of it, then neurotoxins were a very likely source.

I looked across to see what Holmes was thinking. He had probably discovered all my observations in a glance, but he met my eyes with a question. "What do you see, doctor?"

"I am not sure; this appears to be anything from heart failure to deliberate physical harm."

"Poison." Holmes affirmed, pointing to a tiny tipped dart located at the nape of the man's neck. "I'm sure of it."

Holmes had no sooner uttered these chilling words when a brisk, baldheaded man pushed his way to the front. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. His face reddening in his outrage.

"It appears one of your violinists has been murdered, maestro. We are dreadfully sorry," Holmes informed.

"Maestro?" I exclaimed. "He is not the conductor! I saw him standing right over…." But as I pointed in the direction I had last seen the man, the baldheaded gentleman interrupted

"No! I am the conductor! Someone locked me in the practice room and I have just managed to escape." For the first time, his frantic eyes took hold of the figure lying on the ground and he gave a yell of surprise. "My dear! That's Jones! Is he alright?"

"Dead in fact," Holmes responded dryly. "But I am sure wherever he is now would be considered 'alright' by my standards." He held out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes. I have had the pleasure of attending one of your symphonies before and am afraid I was the only one to notice your absence. Whoever this impostor was, he seems to have disappeared. Perhaps you could dispel this crowd? My colleague and I would like to ask you a few questions regarding our dead man Jones."

Scotland Yard had arrived and with the assistance of the ushering conductor, helped dismiss the buzzing crowd.

With only our presence, the hall seemed imposing. The chandeliers and velvet were a posh contrast to the overturned music stands and scattered papers that spoke of the sinister event that had taken place here.

"I figured you would be here, Holmes." Lestrade walked up the steps of the stage. "Though the fact that your pet doctor let you out of the house is a bit surprising."

I glowered quietly as Holmes laughed; only to go into a fit of coughing, giving me both a flash of unhealthy pride and concern.

"Never mind us, Watson," Holmes remarked good naturedly. "Not everyone shares your loyal disposition. Now, Lestrade." He wrapped an arm around the detective and walked with him towards the body. "You needn't worry your mind over this. I assure you I am fully recovered and am ready to take a case such as this. In fact, my mind has already risen to the challenge. With Watson here to keep an eye on me, I can assure you that we won't be traversing any underground passages for awhile. This is simply a mentality case. No physical exertions required. You may stay and talk to the conductor with us, but leave the rest of the case to me and know that both I and the case are in capable hands."

Lestrade gave him a look of suspicion. "If you insist. I don't want you vexing Watson with that great mind of yours." The detective gave me a wink. "Just see to it that you contact me if you find anything of note." He tipped his hat and walked away.

"Perfect!"Holmes rubbed his hands together. "Now all we need is that peculiar conductor of ours…. Ah! There's the man." He greeted the conductor as he came up the stairs. "Now, Maestro Benedict, if you will please state how you came to be locked in the practice room, my friend and I would be much obliged." 

Maestro Benedict took a seat well away from the body which he eyed with much abhorrence. "The case is this, Mr. Holmes. I was preparing to go on stage when I was hit from behind and forced into the room by two men dressed in orchestra standard. I know not who these men were, but I did observe a third man, straightening his bow tie as he watched this whole display."

"And you know this man?"

The man made a passing motion over the top of his head. As if running a hand through hair which was no longer there. "Yes, I do." He sighed. "Peter Frasier was a pupil of mine. I taught music at College three years ago before conducting this orchestra and that is where I first met him. We had a sort of falling out you could call it and he left my class. Last I heard of him he was trying to make his way out in the South African diamond mines. A pity really, such an intelligent young fellow."

"What was the nature of your disagreement?" Holmes had straddled a chair and was watching the maestro with his curious grey eyes.

"Teaching methods." Benedict confessed. "He thought he would be the better teacher. I suppose his ego just couldn't handle it." 

Holmes nodded. "What of poor Mr. Jones here?"

The conductor shrugged. "I knew him rather poorly. He only just recently joined my orchestra. He was very talented, I am sorry to see him gone."

"Thank you, Maestro Benedict that will be all." Holmes rose from his chair. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take Mr. Jones's violin for examination."

Then man's eyes widened. "His violin? Of course you may, but what clue could an instrument furnish?"

"Everything is evidence," Holmes said simply. "And if I find nothing of value, it will be nothing more than a closer examination of such a beautiful instrument." 

_Chapter Two_

Holmes had taken the cab ride to Baker Street in his usual silence that followed something which had alighted his mind. Saying nothing to me, he ran upstairs and began to examine the violin and its case. I let him alone. I had treated a patient in the last stages of consumption the night prior and was feeling the worse for it. Sitting in my chair, I brooded over the singular event which had made an otherwise commonplace visit to the orchestra so interesting. I was just nodding off to sleep when Holmes's voice interrupted.

"Watson, fetch me my violin case will you? There's a good chap."

I set the case beside him on the table. He laid the two cases open side by side and pressed his finger pads together as if thinking. "Do you notice anything peculiar, Watson? Does something differ from one case to the other?"

I examined both cases minutely but having little knowledge regarding violins, could see nothing out of place. "No, Holmes. What is it?"

"Rosin," he announced. "No well trained violinist goes without it, but it appears ours did."

"Perhaps he misplaced it," I suggested.

"Probable, but not likely. Rosin is key to a well sounding violin. Jones would have rosined his bow just before playing. It should be found either here in this case, or near his chair."

"But it was neither. I saw no such thing by his chair."

Holmes's brow furrowed as he thought the problem through. Sighing, he threw himself onto the settee and closed his eyes. "The rosin is our key. If we find it, we will unlock the door to this mystery. Now, Watson, do me a favor will you? Let me alone for a few hours, and then we will return to the scene of the crime. I have some unfinished business I could not complete with that peculiar maestro hovering over us like that."

Glancing out the window at the dreary rain that poured down the streets of London, I wondered how on earth Holmes expected us to return to the music hall at such late an hour. Surely nothing of interest would be found. The body had been moved and everything thoroughly examined. But trusting that Holmes knew what he was up to, I took a seat on the couch and waited for his next move.

I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew, the sun was pouring in and the door was closing with a light step upon the stairs. Rising from my chair, I looked up to see Holmes in a state of much excitement. "Watson!" he greeted me. "Dress quickly, for we have an appointment to keep. And we must arrive at tea time exactly!"

"Where in heaven's name are we going?" I asked.

"Maestro Benedict's residence. Quickly, Watson, quickly!"

Following my companion who fairly clamored down the stairs, we hailed a cab and were soon driving on our way to the great musical conductor's. Holmes's nervous hands showed his excitement. His jumpy manner was infectious and I sensed he had found a lead. "Did you find the rosin?"

"No, Watson. That is still missing from our puzzle. But I have found something much better than rosin."

"And this will be found at the maestro's home?"

I caught the faintest glimpse of a smile. "Yes, I do believe it will." 

I was not aware that we were to be arriving at Maestro Benedict's house unannounced, and was even more surprised when Holmes readily accepted the invitation into tea. Whatever his plan was, it was certainly abstruse in method. Seating ourselves at the table, Maestro Benedict asked conversationally, "Have you found any clues, Mr. Holmes?"

"Very few," Holmes answered vaguely. "There are quite a few threads that I have not yet begun to sort."

Maestro Benedict gave a smile of sympathy while handing the silver teapot across the table to Holmes.

"Oh dear me!" Holmes exclaimed, accidentally knocking over the cream in the process. "I am dreadfully sorry."

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes." Maestro Benedict jumped from his chair to stop the mess from spreading. "I'm afraid I keep very few servants, I will go fetch a towel."

As soon as Benedict had left, Holmes leapt from his chair and pulled a sticky adhesive from his coat pocket, rubbing it over the handle of the teapot before carefully peeling it off and examining it with a look of satisfaction.

"Good heavens, Holmes!" I cried, wide eyed from the spectacle. "What on earth are you playing at?"

"Hush, Watson." Holmes pocketed the glue like material. "This is a careful game we must play. Do exactly as I say. I want you to go to a small dormitory located at the corner of Watergate. There you will find a tall, lanky fellow with a quizzical face. Convince him that he needs to be at the music hall in exactly a quarter of an hour. Then go visit our dear friend Lestrade and tell him to arrive at the same time and to bring a pitcher of hot water. I will meet you there."

I rose from my chair, "But the conductor!"

"I will explain that you were called a way on an emergency. With haste, Watson! The closing of a very dreadful story depends upon you."

This left me little time for consideration and grabbing my coat, I ran from the house, the voices of Holmes's conversational laughter coming from behind me as he explained to the conductor my apparently urgent circumstances. I hailed a cab and drove to the place Holmes had directed. I had very little idea how I was to convince a complete stranger of his presence at the music hall, but after finding the man, I simply had to mention the conductor's good name and his face paled into a shade so white it nearly matched the papers he was in the process of reading.

Lestrade handled the news differently. Pushing himself off the wall where he'd been leaning, he removed his pipe and drawled slowly. "So Holmes has caught the scent already, eh? Figures, that mind of his has been raring to go ever since that last case."

I barely had time to catch another cab, but still made it ahead of Scotland Yard and the man at the dorms. Holmes and Maestro Benedict were standing up on the stage and Benedict was becoming increasingly agitated. "Mr. Holmes, I ask of you, what are we doing here? All possible help you may gather from here has certainly been collected. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several important things I must attend to to-day."

Holmes saw me walking towards the stage and ran to meet me, eyes ablaze with excitement. Clutching my hands in his cold ones, he whispered. "Is it done?"

"Yes, Holmes, just as you asked."

"Capital!" he exclaimed. "I tell you, Watson, this never would have been completed without you."

Maestro Benedict was beginning to show signs of impatience and walking up the steps to meet him, he looked at us with some annoyance. "I thought you had a case to attend to, Doctor Watson."

But before I could forge an answer, the tall young man came running into the room. "Tell me, Benedict! Is everything all right?"

Benedict's eyes widened with a look of alarm. "Frasier? What are you doing here?"

The man now identified as Mr. Frasier pointed in my direction. "That man told me to meet you here. It sounded urgent."

For the first time since meeting him, Maestro Benedict's eyes narrowed in my direction with a look of distrust.

"Alright, Holmes," Lestrade called out, joining us on stage. "Let's hear this out."

"Thank you, Lestrade." Holmes stood in centre stage, I noticed for the first time he had his violin in hand. "I have a story for you all." He began to play slowly, with deep meaningful notes.

"One of such deception and plot, that I admit I was at first puzzled by it. It begins with a man. Simple enough, but this man had a secret. He had an avaricious appetite. Name recognition wasn't good enough for him. He met another man. This man was a professor. A man of music. Together, they found that they shared the same interest. Greed."

The music began to play a note faster and Holmes began to walk closer. "They hatched a plan. One of daring; almost romantic in its risks, but brilliant nonetheless. It took many years to accomplish, in fact, tonight, we are hearing the final chapter. These two worked together for many years going under the guise of teacher and pupil all the while lying in wait for their chance."

None of us dared move as Holmes's narrative grew deeper and the music flowed with it. The notes had crept higher, tingling to the spine and almost painful to the ears. "But finally, the chance came. The first man took leave to South Africa where he planned to make his fortune in the diamond mines. The other stayed and moved along the ranks to where he currently stands. All the while waiting for the news that their goal had been obtained. All was set as it should be. The younger man returned from his trip to South Africa and in his excitement, could not wait to show his teacher their prize. But that was his first mistake. In his haste, his caution was thrown to the wind. Someone else saw the coveted object. This man had been a fellow miner, but after failing to find fortune in the mines, he turned his hand to music for his true passion lied with the violin. This third man was, after spending time in South Africa, well aware of the object's origin and having just recently joined this very symphony, chose to wait and watch for his chance at redeeming the article.

"His chance finally came the night before last. Stealing back the precious piece, his only option was to hide it. Melting down rosin, a hard sap like substance that every violinist has, he dropped the object in the mixture and waited for it to harden. Its precious cargo never to be known except by those who seek it."

The violin was wailing now, creating such music and passion that every nerve vibrated as if being connected to its strings. Holmes's eyes were hard points of grey as his focus never left that of his audience. "But the article was missed. A common trait of the greedy man is that he never rests until he knows his riches are safe. This results in the frequent checking to make sure that nothing of value has been lost. As expected, the two men were livid. But their antagonist was not known to them. But they needn't have fretted, for the enemy revealed himself. It was none other than our dead violinist Jones. He confronted Maestro Benedict and Frasier, who, as you have guessed are the other actors in our play. Jones told them of what he thought of their actions, and planned on quitting the symphony and alerting the authorities as soon as the performance was over. But that wasn't good enough for our money seeking pair. They formed another plan. This one even more brilliant and cunning than before. This one left them well away from harm. No possible clues could be traced back to them. Their only witness would be dead, leaving them absolutely blameless. They faked a struggle, Benedict claimed to be attacked by three men, but if you examine the carpet, there are only the footsteps of one and those belong to Benedict himself. He was quite at his leisure while Frasier carried out the abominable act. Placing himself in the seat of one of the trumpets, for he was well versed in many instruments, Frasier took careful aim. For music was not all that he was knowledgeable in. While in South Africa, Frasier had learned of a poison dart, a common hunting weapon among the natives. It was with this dart that he killed Jones. Waiting until the song was at its climax to hide the loud note it would take to blow such a projectile and send Mr. Jones to his death. But waiting was not all that Maestro Benedict was doing. While the symphony played, he ransacked the practice room, searching for their stolen prize. And they found it! Blast it! The one piece of evidence I had needed, gone. Now, Lestrade, if you will kindly take the rosin from Maestro Benedict's front coat pocket, we will see what this is about."

Lestrade stepped forward and held out his hand to take the rosin, but Benedict struggled and I had to step forward and assist Lestrade in retrieving the object. Holmes took the smooth, rounded cube from him with a smile and dropped it into the steaming water Lestrade had been asked to bring. It took several minutes, but at last, the sappy material disintegrated to reveal a diamond the size of a working man's thumb nail.

"Behold, this rara avis, this prize possession! Behold the most beautiful gem in all of South Africa," Holmes cried, holding it up for us all to see and one could catch a glimpse of the pride he felt at the sight of his flushed cheeks and excited eyes.

Frasier's mouth dropped, Maestro Benedict's face grew steadily flushed until the color reached the very top of his head.

"I think we've seen enough." Lestrade said gruffly, leading Frasier and Maestro Benedict away. "You've done it again, Mr. Holmes. I'll have you come down to the yard later to clear the statements."

_Chapter Three_

"Well, Watson." Holmes smiled as he puffed serenely at his pipe. "I must say that that has proved to be the most interesting outing to the symphony that I have ever experienced."

I nodded my consent. "But Holmes, there are still several factors that are unclear to me. How did you deduce all that? Surely you could not have spun that fantastic story from so few facts."

"Simple," Holmes said. "Did you observe Jones's hands? They were hard worn and worked well. Truly music was not his only form of employment for a violinist's hands are worn rough between the thumb and pointing finger and along the tops of the finger pads. The second clue was the missing rosin for that is very peculiar, but that does not come into our narrative until later. I was first drawn to this case by the absence of the conductor."

"If not Frasier, then who was the man leading the music?" I asked

"I tracked him down while you were attending an already dead Mr. Jones." Holmes explained. "He was nothing more than your average school boy. Paid to do his part and did so rather poorly I might add. With the way he was waving the baton around you would think him handling nothing more than a wooden stick."

I smiled at his analogy. "But how did you gather everything else? What of Maestro Benedict's tale of having a row with Mr. Frasier? Was that not fairly convincing?"

"Yes, and would have been had I not seen them both together in a photo of the College's graduating yearbook arm and arm. Studying music and its contemporaries may not be such a waste of time after all."

"And the diamond mines!" I exclaimed. "What do you have to say to that? How did you know of their plan?"

For the first time since I had known him, I saw Holmes look positively sheepish. "I admit," he coughed. "That that part was a bit of an exaggeration. I had pieced together a few pieces to the puzzle and was hoping what I had found would suffice. A guilty conscience does not settle well under any form of truth."

I nodded, pleased with this development of Holmes actually having to make a guess. "I did like your portrayal. The violin music was very effective."

Holmes smiled. "I have always been fond of the dramatic."

"Dramatic indeed! What was your display at Maestro Benedict's for?"

Holmes threw back his head and laughed. "Did you enjoy that? I thought you would. Benedict was positively flustered to find you gone. I have never seen a man whose face could turn such a shocking shade of crimson." He withdrew from his pocket the sticky substance I had seen from earlier. "This is a sample piece of rosin. It is partly melted, hence the reason for the adhesiveness, but when applied to an object, it will hold the print. When I was investigating the practice room- that's where I was last night- I found the smudges of fingerprints everywhere. Surely someone had been looking for something. I memorized the pattern and compared it to the one Mr. Benedict left on the handle of the teapot to find them a perfect match. That is how I knew he was looking for something."

"Brilliant!" I cried, overcome with the sheer wit of it all.

"Simple, really." Holmes said modestly, unable to keep the note of pride from his voice.

"And the diamond. How did you know that to be the object that was missing?"

"Really, Watson." Holmes chided. "You ought to read the papers for information and not pleasure as you tend to do. Otherwise, you might have noticed the headlines on the missing diamond."

I smiled, my mind finally caught up on all that had transpired. "I suppose you are satisfied now? Your case is complete?"  
"No," Holmes face took on a look of utter dejection. "I'm afraid it is not solved yet."

I sat up in my chair. "You mean there is more to this murder?"

"Not that. My Moroccan case. I am still yet to discover its whereabouts and that, my dear Watson is the crime of the century."

I laughed, "Well, my dear Holmes, you will be getting no assistance from me." 


End file.
